We cooked honey cakes for breakfast, and brought them to
grandpa's bed. Grandpa is getting jollier and jollier as his
wrinkles multiply. Proof: he took three honey cakes, placed
them on his head, and pulled his night cap down over it to
cover his laughing face. When he popped the cap off, they
had turned into three parrots and he gave one each to me,
Misha and Linor. How we all laughed together!

After he died, it just got better! We would place flowers on
his grave, and he would pull them down and push back
chocolates that jumped into the air, and land in our hands.
Linor would clap and make those pig noises that grandpa
loved so much. He would call her his little piglet, and sing
to her. When he went away, I began to sing instead.

Little Misha was shot dead in Lebanon, a captain. Linor died
last year from pneumonia, only 14 years old, and I am the
only one left. Every week, I bring flowers to the grave and
catch chocolates in mid-air. Every week, he throws them up
higher and higher. Oh, grandpa! Last week, one popped out
and fell across to the right, plop in the middle of Linor's
little patch. It disappeared into the ground, and I'm sure I
heard a squeal. So I sang: "Piglet, oh piglet, oink me a
tune..." while standing on my head.